(Chicago, early 1970s)

A young man had started dating a high school classmate of his.
Both were Caucasian; their school was highly integrated.
After awhile the young woman requested 
that he come to her house to meet her family.
But she cautioned him that her father, unfortunately, 
could be bigoted at times,
And had spoken disapprovingly when informed 
that the young man played basketball at their school.
Sure enough, the father’s first comment to him 
at their home was:

“I hear you’re on the basketball team at the high school.”
“Yes Sir, I am,” the young man politely replied.
“How many Blacks players are on that team?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You apparently want to spend time with my daughter, 
so I want to know who else you spend time with.”
“I spend time with lots of people.”
“That’s not what I mean.  Why basketball, 
out of all the things there are to do at that school?”
“I’ve always liked basketball, and I’m pretty good at it.”
“So, how many Blacks are on your team?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean – you don’t know?  -- can’t you count?”
“It’s not that I haven’t counted.”
“Ah, now we’re finally getting somewhere.  How many?”
“It’s that I haven’t noticed.”